


Half-Baked

by link621



Category: Tokyo Babylon
Genre: Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-11-17
Updated: 2004-11-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 09:54:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/637658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/link621/pseuds/link621
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Subaru vs. the Pancakes... and the pancakes are winning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Half-Baked

He is not exactly known for his cooking. He had learned enough to get by on somewhere along the line—he could cook rice and he knew very well how to order take-out—but he never really sat down with a recipe and tried to cook for himself.   
  
But he is hungry, it is breakfast time, and being twenty-one years old, it is about high time he figured this out for himself. So, he grabs a cookbook and chooses to make the easiest thing he can find. No need to rush himself this early.  
  
Pancakes. Those had always looked simple enough. You just mix together some batter and pour it on a pan and flip them and you’re done. At least, that is how he understands it from the rare occasions when he had seen Hokuto make them. Then again, hers had always been absolutely perfect silver dollar pancakes that were just the right shade of brown.  
  
He stares at the ingredients—it’s all normal house-hold stuff—and collects them all on the counter with some measuring cups, spoons, a bowl to mix in, and the pan, before staring back at the recipe.   
  
Mix the dry ingredients. That’s easy. He measures out the flour, salt and sugar, mixing them in the bowl, then, as per the directions, adds in milk and butter. He beats two eggs, and then mixes it all together, stirring it tirelessly until it looks like batter is supposed to. Or, at least… he thinks that’s what batter is supposed to look like. He hopes.  
  
He greases the pan, puts it on the burner, and pours the first batch of pancakes. So far, so good. Of course, he doesn’t know when he is supposed to be flipping them. His sister seemed to do it at the most random of intervals. The cookbook tells him the edges will bubble and turn golden-brown.  
  
Golden-brown, that’s such a cooking term, he thinks absently, watching his pancakes diligently for them to do so. It seems to be taking longer than he would have expected—though, the pancakes are bubbling, and he can see cooked batter inside the bubbles. But, still—they don’t look very golden-brown to him.  
  
Besides, how is he supposed to tell if the edges are golden-brown when they are, for the most part, underneath the rest of the pancake?  
  
So, he gets impatient, flipping the pancake with a spatula (not that he knows how to flip a pancake properly—he’s winging that, too). And, much to his dismay, when it lands back on the pan, the side that had been face down is entirely black. Woe-begottenly, Subaru flips the other pancakes—they all look the same—and ends up throwing them away.   
  
Starting over.  
  
He pours only one pancake into the pan this time. And, he waits for it to bubble, the second he starts to see signs of it, he gets his spatula under the pancake, and pulls.  
  
The pancake is stuck. He didn’t grease the pan again after the first failed attempt.  
  
Frustrated, Subaru yanks at the pancake with the spatula, pulling on it as hard as he can until it, quite suddenly, unsticks and flings straight up, the uncooked batter sticking to the bottom of the microwave that hangs over his range. Subaru stares at it, waiting for it to fall down on its own, but nothing happens. He reaches out with the spatula and lightly taps the half-cooked pancake, and it does not move.  
  
He blinks slowly, and moves away, taking the pan with him and putting it in the sink. He needs to start with a new pan, too—a new greased pan, he hopes. He uses the spray-on cooking oil and pours one silver-dollar sized pancake into the pan, waiting for it to bubble. Cautiously (and very slowly) he lifts it from the pan with the spatula and flips it, feeling quite victorious that it appears to be cooked perfectly. Noting how long the first side took, he lets out a contented sigh and waits to flip it the second time.  
  
Removing it from the pan, putting it on the plate, he lets out a noise of glee to see that it came out perfectly. Too excited to make more (and not to mention too hungry), he goes to the table with the pancake and some syrup, and sits down, grinning.  
  
Just as he takes the lid off the syrup the fax machine rings—startling him into squeezing the bottle too-hard, making syrup come out like a fountain—shooting straight up and getting, quite unfortunately, in his hair. He turns very slowly to the fax machine, glaring at it as it seems to be quite content in just printing its fax, completely obvious to Subaru’s deep-seeded hatred.  
  
“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” he grumbles at it, feeling syrup now oozing over his hand, dripping down the side of the bottle.   
  
Behind him, in the kitchen, the half-cooked pancake falls.


End file.
